


Consolations.

by wordsinthedark (VanScritto)



Series: Hidden. [1]
Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 09:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanScritto/pseuds/wordsinthedark
Summary: Berlin is a shit show from start to finish and even Jean-Eric's suggestion of consolation sex isn't going to cheer André up. He's not talking about consolation sexwith himafter all.





	Consolations.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeraparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/gifts).



> So, I guess, you can all thank zeraparker for this one. She made me do it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want Jev to win. He does. He really, truly does.

It’s just that he also really wants to win himself.

André pushes his clothes messily into his shoulder bag. Of course they don’t all fit, because why would they? On a day like today, when everything – every single little thing – had gone wrong already? One tenth of a second too late for the qualifying round. One fucking tenth.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, keeping himself _thismuch_ from throwing his jacket across the garage and all the rest of his stuff along with it.

Jev is celebrating now, isn’t he?

Third place, well deserved.

If André weren’t so pissed at the battery, he’d even be happy. In a few hours, he probably will be. Until then, he has to swallow his pride, smile for the cameras and answer that stupid question about _what went wrong today in your home race, André_ as gracefully as humanly possible. And maybe not snort at the idea that Berlin of all cities marks his _home_.

He wants to go home now, which how he can tell that it’s not here.

When Jev finally returns, still sweaty and glowing with the stupid trophy in his hands, André is just about done. He’s so tired, he can’t even be angry anymore. He sits on his still rolled out mat on the floor as Jev enters and opens his race suit without ceremony.

"Today was crazy." Jev toes off his shoes while watching André watching him. Just having him here already calms André’s nerves, even if he does want to yell at Jev, even if it was just to yell at _someone_. Their eyes lock as Jev undresses and, wordlessly, André hands him a towel.

"It totally was," André agrees.

"I need a shower."

"You already had a shower."

Jev snorts and flips André off.

"A proper shower."

"What, like the champagne didn't get all the sweat off properly?" He regrets it the moment the words are out of his mouth. "Sorry."

"You're angry. I get that." Jev still looks a little hurt and that, more than anything, is what gets to André. They're supposed to be a team. And he's sitting here being petty about a tenth of a second that wouldn't have gotten him anywhere in the end what with his battery dying within the last ten minutes of the race.

"I am," he finally admits. "I am fucking pissed."

Jev nods solemnly and rubs the towels over his sweaty hair. He really does stink, André thinks. He doesn't want to go on a plane with a stinky Jev, no matter how fast he wants to leave now. The smell of champagne will just make everything worse.

His phone chimes with a message from Takako, asking where he is. _Shit_ , he forgot about her. He's so not used to having someone to take care off when he's racing. Okay, that's maybe a little unfair. He doesn't need to _take care_ of Takako. But she is his plus one, after all. And she's sitting next to him on the plane home, so maybe he should be looking for her now.

"Alright, take your shower, champion," he says and gets up from the floor. "I'm gonna go look for the girls."

"They're in the lounge," Jev says like it's the most natural thing in the world, knowing where your significant other is at all times. "At least that's where I left them a minute ago." Right, so it _is_ a thing.

Jev motions as if to hug André and for a split second, André flinches. Jev is pretty much naked except for his underwear. He can't be this close to André in public. Or well, the other way around, really. André can't be this close to Jev. Jev looks even more hurt now.

"You stink, man," André says, in order to save the situation, "and I already showered. With water. Like a normal loser."

"You're not a loser," Jev says automatically.

"I am today."

"No, today you are being a bit of a child. Things didn't go your way, so what. It's a wave that knocked you over. Next race, it'll be a wave you ride. You know how it is."

André does know how it is. But he wants to wallow in self-pity for a moment. If Jev makes another move to hug André, he's not flinching away. But, of course, Jev doesn't make another move. Instead, he just puts one hand on André's shoulder and squeezes. "Also, consolation sex is pretty much the second best kind of sex in the world." The bastard has the audacity to wink.

André snorts.

Right. Consolation sex.

"What's the first best?"

Jev grins. " _Congratulations_ sex, of course."

Right. And now André has that image in his head.

Because that's what this shitty day needed: A reminder that, tonight, Jev will have the best kind of sex with someone else.

 

***

 

The great thing about Takako is that she doesn't ask any questions. So when he tells her later, as they're setting their bags down in his apartment in Monaco, that he's going out, she just looks at him. For one terrible moment he thinks she'll ask if she can come, too, but she's smarter than that.

"Have fun," she says and shrugs. "And be careful."

André is a little annoyed that she feels the need to lecture him about carefulness. But she lets out a small giggle, like she knows so much more than he does about _everything_ – and, if he is honest with himself, she probably does – and he just lets it go. There's a reason that Takako is the one he took with him from Japan. Takako doesn't ask stupid question, Takako understands.

But so does whiskey, and right now, he'd rather do whiskey.

Also, this is a PR thing so he's practically _required_ to attend, he tells himself as he texts Jev about the party. And he takes it as a sign that Jev immediately texts him back.

 

***

 

André is positively shitfaced. He knows this and the people around him know this, but for the first time since the qualifying this morning he feels like himself again. Not _under control_ per se, but the dull ache in his body has left him. Stupid qualifying, stupid one tenth of a second, stupid battery.

Stupid Jev.

Yes, stupid Jev with his P8 starting position and his podium result and his short hair that suits him and brings out his cheekbones and his button up shirt that rides a little too high when he lifts his arms and gives way to a small strip of skin on his midriff. Stupid, stupid Jev.

"You're feeling better I see," Jev says, grinning from ear to ear. He's dancing and the music is loud, so he's probably screaming, but André is too focused on the movement of Jev's mouth to care.

Shit.

Looking at Jev's mouth just makes André think of the things that came out of it earlier, in the garage, when he was getting changed. _Consolation sex is the second best kind of sex._ He'd said it to cheer André up, no doubt.

And he'd probably meant Takako, when he said it. Just like he was talking about Lorene when he mentioned _congratulations sex_ , but Lorene isn't here, either. Neither one of the girls is, and Jev was talking about sex earlier and that's all André can think about now while he watches Jev's lips move.

That's probably what he was supposed to be careful about. Shit, Takako really does know so much more about everything.

André realizes too late that Jev is streaming something on his Instastories, so he plasters on a drunken smile, dances to the beat and excuses himself as quickly as possible.

They're on a boat, of course. A yacht, to be exact, and normally he'd love it, but there is just nowhere to go and have a quiet moment. Fucking nowhere. Except maybe some weird cabinet that's stuffed full of linens and towels. This is a good place to have a bit of a drunken breakdown, André decides.

The room is surprisingly cool, considering the temperatures outside. It helps with the spinning in his head and when he leans his forehead against the metal of the built-in racks, he can feel the bass from outside. It's soothing, but it doesn't help with the thoughts.

The door opens and closes again, while André's head is still leaned against the cool metal. He doesn't have to turn around to know who just squeezed in behind him.

"If you need to throw up, you should do it over the reeling," Jev says calmly. André can feel Jev's breath on his neck and the coolness of the room immediately dissipates.

"I'm not gonna throw up."

"Sure. You look a little sick, though." Hands clasp André's shoulders and Jev puts the gentlest of pressures there. "You wanna head out?"

"You're celebrating."

"I _have_ celebrated. We can go home."

André doesn't want to go home. More than that, he doesn't want Jev to go home, because home is where Lorene is. He lifts his head from the metal and turns around. It's a tight squeeze with the two of them in there and Jev doesn't really seem to want to cooperate. When André finally manages to look at his teammate, they're almost face to face, Jev's eyes searching his.

"What?" André asks. "Did you want to go home or what?"

Jev doesn't move. His hands are still at André's shoulders and now one of them is wandering dangerously close towards his neck. There's a small smile playing on his lips.

"Or what," he says. "Takako was with me at the podium, you know."

What? Where is that coming from? And no, of course, André doesn't know. Because he hadn't had the mind to deal with anyone when he came back into the pit. He'd completely forgotten about her until she'd sent him that text. But that was half an hour later or so? Maybe even more.

"That's nice of her," is all he can think of in reply.

"Is it?" Jev's fingers have reached André's hairline at the back of his neck and begin stroking small patterns into his skin. It takes all of André's self control not to moan. This feels great. "Wasn't she supposed to be with you? _Consoling_ you?"

The way that Jev emphasizes the word makes a little shiver run down André's spine. Was that what was expected of them? Was he supposed to take comfort in her after a shitty race result, let her _console_ him in the paddock? The idea seems ludicrous somehow.

"She was my stand-in," André jokes. "She cheered you on when I couldn't."

"Because you were moping in the paddock and packing _both_ our bags?"

"I was taking a shower."

"Showering and moping, I see." Silence falls between them. Jev's eyes are surprisingly focused for the amount of alcohol he's probably had. "It's not the same, though."

"What isn't?"

"When it's her instead of you." Jev's thumb strokes André's jawline.

"I know." André wants to say more, wants to tell Jev that it isn't the same when it's her instead of Jev, either, but even in his drunken state and even with Jev caressing his skin the way he is now, he knows it would be stupid. "We should go home, maybe."

He's so tired all of a sudden, and it was Jev who suggested it just moments ago. But when André makes a move towards the door, Jev doesn't budge.

"Or maybe not," Jev whispers instead. There's a glint in his eyes that André thinks could be the booze. To his own drunken brain, it looks suggestive. "You still need to be _consoled_ , don't you."

Again with the emphasis. Are they still talking about the same thing? Is _consoling_ still a euphemism or is Jev just being a dick right now? Shit, maybe André shouldn't have had that much to drink. Because Jev is so close now that it almost appears as if he's about to kiss André. In a cabinet. On a yacht. With a shit-ton of people just outside.

"Right," André says in an attempt to laugh it off. "And you still need to be _congratulated_ , so we probably better get—"

 _Going_ , was what he was going to say, but can't, because suddenly, Jev's mouth is on André's and the words just dissipate from his mind. It's chaste, almost, just lips pressed against lips. Jev smells of cigarettes and whiskey and sweat and a little bit of the pot someone else must have smoked near him. It's nothing like André had imagined their first kiss to be like. And that's saying something, because André had gone through several different scenarios in his mind. A frantic, desperate kiss in the paddock. One full of adrenaline after a big win. A sweet one after a first date. All of them involved André making the first step though. Not Jev. Not _drunk_ Jev.

Ah, shit.

There's a sobering thought. His hands feel heavy as he puts them on Jev's shoulders and pushes.

"Let's call an Uber," he says. "It's getting late." He doesn't dare look Jev in the eyes and he just hopes that his teammate is shitfaced enough to have forgotten all about this thing in the morning. He hates that, once again, he has to be the one to draw the lines, to be _careful_. And more than that, he hates that he sees Takako's face in his mind, her understanding smile and he already knows that when he tells her about this, she will stroke his jaw not dissimilar to the way Jev stroked it earlier and tell him that she understands. She probably knew this was coming ages ago.

Jev's hand lands on André's as he's trying to tap his phone to life.

"Let's call an Uber _after_ I've consoled you." Jev's other hand slides down André's front and André, still unable to lift his head to look into Jev's face, just watches it drift down. It feels strangely detached for a moment, as if he were watching a movie. Jev's hand lands on his belt and moves back up again an inch underneath André's shirt, tickling the skin just above his jeans. Jev leans in closer, his hot breath ghosting over André's temple where he's lowered his head and further towards his neck. "Or are you too far gone for it?"

André is definitely too far gone, but in an entirely different way. He is so far gone that when Jev slips André's phone from his hand and back into his jeans, he doesn't protest. He is so far gone that when Jev presses a kiss against his cheek, he leans into it, twists his head so the next kiss lands on the corner of his mouth. He is so far gone even, that when Jev pulls back a little to grin at him, André catches his mouth with his and uses that small amused sound that Jev makes to push his tongue between his lips.

The taste of whiskey gets stronger, reminds André of the idiocy of this moment, but Jev pretty much made him do it. He _insisted_. It's not André's fault.

This kiss is so much more like a first kiss he imagined. It's Jev's teeth catching his bottom lip in a playful bite, it's his tongue sliding against André's on a moan, it's lips rubbing over stubble that is sure to burn tomorrow. It's also hands, Jev's in particular, because André is still too preoccupied with the fact that he is kissing Jev — that _Jev is kissing him_ — to notice Jev's fingers digging into the soft flesh of André's sides.

He does notice the clattering sound of his belt buckle being opened, though.

"Jesus, Jev," he mumbles against his teammate's mouth, trying to catch Jev's hands in his. "Maybe we should—"

"Maybe you should shut up." Jev kisses him again, deep and slow, in the same rhythm he uses to open first the button and then the zipper of André's pants. He doesn't break the kiss while sliding one hand to the waistband of his boxers, just as slow and deliberate as if he wants to make sure that André has ample time to understand what it is exactly that Jev is planning on doing.

It still catches André by surprise when Jev's fingers stroke his dick through the cotton fabric. Jev chuckles at his moan and he strokes André again. "I have been waiting for that sound."

André's hands rest on Jev's wrists and he remembers briefly how he wanted to push Jev away, how he was going to keep them from going too far, how he was going to be responsible and _careful_ and shit, this is none of those things. This is Jev tracing the outline of his dick through his boxers while tonguefucking his mouth. That's what this is.

It's a dream, André decides. He is at home, in his bed, dreaming of this. And since this is a dream, there's no reason to be careful. There is no reason to not push Jev's hand a little harder against his dick, to help Jev figure out just how much pressure he wants there, to rock his hips into the movement and moan into Jev's mouth when his fingers graze the head.

Really, no reason at all.

It feels like heaven already and André is pretty sure he can come like that, despite all the alcohol running through his system, but it only gets better when Jev pushes down his boxers and pants just low enough for his dick to spring free. He can wrap his hand around it now and when he does, André thinks that yes, he can _definitely_ come like that. In seconds probably, because Jev is still kissing him in that rhythm and spreading the precome around the head and André is fucking into his fist now and there's noises filling the small room they're in that he isn't entirely sure can be drowned out by the music blaring outside.

"Fuck," he whispers, heat pooling in his stomach. "Fuck, what…" _What are we doing?_ He wants to ask, but doesn't. This is a dream, after all. He doesn't have to know.

Jev stops kissing him for a moment to spit in his hand, which shouldn't be sexy and probably wouldn't be if he didn't put that hand right onto his dick again with a new rhythm, one that's faster and harder than before.

"If you call that Uber now," Jev whispers into André's ear, "it might come at the same time as you do."

"Doubt that," André grits out. There's no way that Uber can be here in five seconds.

"Let's make it a race." Shit, what? Jev's rhythm doesn't even falter as he grabs André's phone, unlocks it in a smooth swipe and orders the Uber with a few simple taps. André doesn't see him do it, he's too focused on keeping his moans in his throat now that he doesn't have Jev's mouth to pour them into. "Five minutes."

And then Jev is kissing him again, and—

"Jev," he moans, a warning, and Jev of course has the mind to pull a towel from the rack just in time for André's shudder as he comes. There are stars on the insides of his eyelids. Fucking stars.

He wants to savour this moment, this closeness, the shared breaths, Jev's hands touching him. But he's pulled out of his post-orgasmic haze when Jev pulls his boxers back up, and then his jeans and his belt buckle and then pats him on the shoulder.

"Our ride is here," Jev says, grinning. And then, without waiting for André, he turns and leaves their little hiding place.

It occurs to André only now that the cold air hits him where Jev's heat has left that he hadn't reciprocated at all and that Jev hadn't asked him to. _After I've consoled you_ , runs through his head. Of course, because that's what this was. This wasn't a dream, it was a _consolation_.

And Jev doesn't need him to reciprocate.

He is going home now, after all.


End file.
